


Beneath the Wisteria

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Family, Fatherhood, Flowers, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Scorpius likes the wisteria best of all. He likes the pretty colours and the way the petals fall like rain, and he likes when Draco lifts him up to push his small fingers through the heaps of flowers. It’s Draco’s favourite too, so he sits with Scorpius by the pond often, under the full, soft petals, and watches Scorpius scoop at the water with a conjured green fishing net. He uses his magic to make the petals fall close to Scorpius, and they kiss the water and unfurl inches from him, until they’re scooped up by the net and placed in a pile on the grass.Scorpius laughs each time he catches one, patting his chubby legs with glee.It makes Draco feel warm.





	Beneath the Wisteria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mxlfoydraco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxlfoydraco/gifts).



> Serra, this is for you! As a sort of Graduation Gift, and a little something because of all the recent stress you've been under lately. I'm so proud of you, and you're going to go so far, and I'm going to keep being proud no matter what! I sincerely hope you love this, and there is a little extra something attached to this that I'll link to when it's posted, because everyone needs to see it. 
> 
> A whole lot of love! <3

It starts when Scorpius is only young. Draco takes him for walks in the Manor grounds, and Scorpius toddles around, his chubby hand held in Draco’s as they examine each plant and leaf and bumblebee with serious curiosity. Scorpius likes to pick up the dirtiest leaves and hand them to Draco for safekeeping, to which Draco grimaces but concedes defeat, smearing mud on the inside of his coat when he pockets them gently. He can never say no to Scorpius. 

There’s a small pond near the lower stone wall of the grounds, an oval of midnight blue blanketed in algae, and above it grows a huge wisteria tree. The delicate branches bend almost all the way to the ground, aching to dig their fingers into the soil. The purple flowers bloom each March, through April and into the beginning of summer, and Draco wants to cast a spell to keep them blooming all year long, but he thinks that would ruin the effect somewhat. 

Scorpius likes the wisteria best of all. He likes the pretty colours and the way the petals fall like rain, and he likes when Draco lifts him up to push his small fingers through the heaps of flowers. It’s Draco’s favourite too, so he sits with Scorpius by the pond often, under the full, soft petals, and watches Scorpius scoop at the water with a conjured green fishing net. He uses his magic to make the petals fall close to Scorpius, and they kiss the water and unfurl inches from him, until they’re scooped up by the net and placed in a pile on the grass. 

Scorpius laughs each time he catches one, patting his chubby legs with glee. 

It makes Draco feel warm. It makes him feel lucky, to have something so precious in his life, when for a while he didn’t think he’d make it out, didn’t think there would be anything but dark paths ahead. 

He’s lucky, to have Scorpius, and he’s going to make sure his son knows that every minute of every day. 

*

Draco finds him by the wisteria. Or more accurately, _up_ the wisteria.

Scorpius is eleven, short and really blonde now, full of mischief and bright curiosity and happiness. Right now, though, there’s sadness on his face, a lost look that Draco wants to smooth away. 

It’s their first proper argument. There have been tellings off in the past, and small disagreements about Scorpius drinking straight out of the milk bottle or leaving his dirty socks crammed down the side of the sofa, but nothing like this. Nothing that hurts this badly. 

Scorpius is eleven, and now he knows what Draco used to be. 

They had gone to Diagon Alley today to get Scorpius’s school things. The hatred has died down since the first few years following the war, but not enough that Draco is entirely welcome in the wizarding world. It had only taken one wrong look before Draco was being sneered at and called Death Eater scum, and Draco had quickly whisked them away before wands could be drawn. He’s not in the business of backing down from these people, but Scorpius was with him, and he refuses to allow his son to get hurt because of Draco’s past. 

Scorpius had asked for an explanation, at home in the living room, quiet and hurt, face wrinkled in confusion. Draco had dropped into the nearest armchair with a deep sigh and told him everything. 

“Are you mad at me?” Draco asks, kneeling beside the pond. He doesn’t care about the dirt that clings to his trousers, doesn’t care that it’s too chilly to be out without a coat on. All he cares about are the tear-stains on his son’s cheeks. 

Scorpius is settled in the dark branches with his arms crossed and his expression pinched. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, so Draco can easily see the way his face twists at the question. His heart hurts at the sight, but he can’t blame Scorpius for being upset, for shouting and storming out. 

Nobody likes finding out that their father was the bad guy, in the past. 

“I don't know,” Scorpius admits, uncrossing his arms and twisting the hem of his jumper instead. He looks so small. “I think I’m mad at a you that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Draco rests his fingertips on the surface of the pond. There are no petals floating on the surface, no curious hands chasing a net through the water, no spring in the air. He feels strangely hollow and wooden inside. 

“But the things you did, and believed,” Scorpius says hesitantly, “you wouldn’t do them now, would you? You don't still believe them?”

Draco stands. It’s not a graceful movement, because his heart is tripping over itself in his haste to set Scorpius straight. 

“Scorpius, I promise you,” Draco says, in a low, earnest tone. “I would never, ever harm another living soul. The things I did were terrible, and being scared was no excuse. Everyone was scared, then. I did what I did because I was terrified I was going to die, that my family would be killed, but I regret every action, every cruel word. I regret this.”

He rolls his sleeve up to show the Dark Mark, faded and scarred but still imprinted on his skin. Scorpius climbs carefully down the tree and shifts closer, skirting the edge of the pond until he reaches Draco, where he presses clean, pale fingers against the Dark Mark. 

Draco has to try desperately hard not to wrench his arm away. He doesn’t want this darkness near his son, the one he would do anything to protect. Scorpius is his happy thought, his source of light and hope. He’s not going to let anything taint the brightness in his eyes, not if he can help it. 

“I don't believe I’m better than anyone just because of my blood,” Draco says quietly. “I don't believe I'm better than anyone at all.”

“You are,” Scorpius says suddenly, fiercely, like he can’t stand to hear Draco berate himself despite what he knows now, and he carefully rolls Draco’s sleeve back down while Draco waits with bated breath. “You’re better than all the people who didn’t try to change.”

*  
There are no wisteria trees in Hogwarts. Hogwarts is full of Venemous Tentacula’s and Mandrakes and other wondrous, magical things that steal Scorpius’s attention, but they don't hold the same magic as the tree at the bottom of the Manor grounds. Scorpius tells him so in a postscript, and Draco doesn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest when he reads the familiar curly letters. 

Draco collects handfuls of wisteria petals and dries them, presses them beneath the pages of an old, yellow book. When they’re flat and dry, he casts a Preserving Spell on them, to help them keep their softness, and he places one in the confines of each letter that he sends to Scorpius. 

It’s not quite the same, though. 

He goes to Neville Longbottom. It’s not somewhere he ever thought he’d be, sitting in Neville’s kitchen, eating a biscuit while Neville stares at him like he’s just grown another head right in front of him. Several heads, in fact, to compliment his newly-grown tail. 

“You want a miniature wisteria tree?” Neville clarifies, looking nonplussed. 

“Something that will fit in a pot on a bedside table,” Draco agrees. “It’s for Scorpius. We have one growing at home, you see, and he misses it when he’s at school. He’s homesick, and I… I want him to have something familiar.”

It’s strange, opening up to Neville Longbottom, of all people. He almost thinks Neville is going to judge him for acting so pathetically, for bearing his heart, but instead, Neville’s expression softens. He offers Draco a tentative smile. 

“In that case, I’d suggest a bonsai.”

*  
Draco levitates three tall glasses of sparkling lemonade on a platter as he weaves his way through the people packed into the gardens. He can see his mother in the distance, making small talk with several important people, but his focus is on finding Scorpius. 

He knows exactly where to look. 

The wisteria is in bloom again. The purple petals scatter themselves in the wind and across the grass, rolling around like bruised tumbleweeds and frollicking at his feet. He steps through the crisp grass and over to the tree, and then stops a few feet away, surprise flowing through him. 

Scorpius isn’t alone. 

Albus Potter is there, too. They’re sprawled beside the pond, legs thrown over each other’s, their shirts rumpled and their hair messy. Scorpius never has messy hair, and as Draco watches him point at the hanging flowers above, Albus reaches a hand up and slips their fingers together. Scorpius turns his head against the grass and kisses Albus on the mouth, and Draco knows he should leave. 

He should leave, but the opportunity to embarrass his son is something he simply can’t pass up. 

“I was worried this party would be too dull and dry for you,” Draco muses aloud, his voice carrying across the short stretch of grass between them. “I can see I was mistaken, and you’ve managed to find your own entertainment.”

It’s gratifying, to watch them both bolt upright and shoot apart. Draco has known they were friends for years - how could he not, when every letter mentioned something else that Albus had done that was simply spectacular? Still, he hadn’t entirely been expecting this. 

“Dad,” Scorpius says, his face burning as he shuffles up off the ground. “We were just looking at the tree, that’s all.”

“We thought we’d get away from the party for a bit,” Albus adds hurriedly. “And Scorpius wanted to show me his favourite place.”

“Mmm,” Draco says, nodding seriously, as though he believes them. He proffers the platter. “Lemonade?”

They take one each, glancing at each other nervously, like they’re not sure what’s going on. Albus is the last to take a sip, and Draco scoffs. It’s not as though he’d poison the boy with witnesses around. 

“Don't be too long, now,” Draco says. “I can see you’re very busy communing with nature, but some people have been asking for you, Scorpius.”

He gives them a serene smile, and turns to leave, before pausing. 

“Oh, and boys?”

“Yes, dad?” Scorpius says, with all the eagerness of someone desperately trying to shoo their parents away. 

Draco smirks as he walks off. “Your shirts are buttoned up wrong.”

The mad scramble behind him is deeply, deeply satisfying. 

*  
He finds Albus hovering by the bare wisteria tree on a Sunday evening, his bright green eyes wide with worry.

“I swear, Mr Malfoy, I didn’t mean to upset him,” Albus says, sounding frustrated. “It’s just a stupid fight, but I don't know how to fix it.”

Draco sighs, and looks at the boy. He may be a Potter, but the fact is, Albus makes Scorpius extremely happy. Something about the combination of ratty band t-shirts and floppy hair must do something for his son, because Scorpius never shuts up about him, even when they’ve been fighting. 

“Scorpius wouldn’t be this upset over something so small unless he cared very deeply for you,” Draco says, adopting a bored look and staring at the tree overhead so he doesn’t have to watch the awkward way Albus rubs furiously at his eyes. It’s kinder, in the long run, to pretend not to see. 

“I don't know what to do,” Albus says. 

Draco sighs heavily. “Keep trying to talk to him. Play slow songs outside his window, if you must, although if you wake me I shall raise the peacocks from the dead and set them on you in the dead of night. If you come back tomorrow morning, I’ll make sure Scorpius is the one who answers the front door.”

Albus breathes out, a long, slow, relieved breath. “Thank you, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco nods shortly. He’s not growing fond of the boy, heaven forbid, but the way that Albus loves Scorpius is at least a little endearing. 

Albus gives a little awkward salute before turning to leap over the wall, and Draco calls after him before he can drop down the other side. 

“Oh, and Albus? It might not hurt to pick some of his favourite flowers. Malfoy’s enjoy being given gifts.”

Albus blinks in confusion, and then glances up at the tree with a small smile. “Wisteria’s, right. I’ll do that. Thanks again, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco watches him disappear, and he’s just turned around to head back to the Manor when he hears a grumbled, “Where the bloody hell do I find _wisteria_ flowers?”

*

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Draco says, glancing warily at Albus Severus Potter. He’s pointing a wand at Draco with far too much glee. Scorpius rolls his eyes. 

“Don't be silly, dad,” Scorpius says. “Al’s done this loads of times, and he knows what he’s doing, don't you Albus?”

“Haven’t maimed anyone yet,” Albus says cheerfully. 

Draco narrows his eyes at Albus. The miniature Potter is having too much fun with this, and Draco will not be bested by another Potter in his lifetime. He absolutely refuses. 

“What possessed you to become a tattoo artist after you finished Hogwarts?” Draco snaps, as he lowers himself into the chair. Scorpius sits on the stool beside him and wheels round and round until Albus aims a light kick at his flailing legs. 

“It’s fun,” Albus says. 

Draco stares at him. “That’s it? No touching recollections of the moment you first realised you were destined to sit in a grubby tattoo parlour for the rest of your life?”

Scorpius hides a laugh behind his fist, and Albus glares flatly at them both. 

“I like the work, it’s not bad pay, and the magic’s interesting,” Albus says succinctly. “Plus, I get to permanently disfigure anyone who comes in here with an attitude.”

Draco moves swiftly to climb out of the chair, and Scorpius rests a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back. 

“Al’s just kidding. Relax, dad. It doesn’t hurt, and he’s really, really good at it.”

“Fine,” Draco says, rolling up his sleeve. “Do your worst, Potter.”

Albus touches the tip of his wand to Draco’s Dark Mark, and begins murmuring under his breath. 

The process takes twelve minutes in total. Draco counts each second carefully, watching the wall across from him while Scorpius leaves his hand on his shoulder. 

By the time Albus leans back and declares it finished, Draco’s arm is numb, but there’s no pain, just a faint, tingling feeling that sweeps through his entire body. 

“There,” Albus says, tucking his wand behind his ear with a flourish. “I’ll leave you to have a look in the mirror, while I check the front. If there’s a problem we can fix it up.”

He grins at Draco, sweeps past to press a quick kiss to Scorpius’ cheek, and then brushes out of the room. 

“Are you going to look?” Scorpius asks, after a few moments of hushed silence. His eyes are glued to the skin where Draco’s Dark Mark used to sit, but Draco can’t bring himself to look. 

“I promise it’s not bad,” Scorpius says, and he hops up off the stool and tugs Draco up too, pulling him towards the far wall, where a long, full-bodied mirror sits. Draco steels himself and takes a deep breath, angling his arm just so. 

He looks in the mirror. 

The Dark Mark is still there. Draco hadn’t wanted to forget it; he wanted the reminder on him, and perhaps one day he’ll be able to get the whole thing completely covered, but not yet. 

It’s not covered up, but it’s less dark, less deathly. The flowers that entwine themselves around the faded scar are delicate shades of pink and blue and yellow, but the most beautiful flowers there are the wisteria vines framing the scar. 

For a minute, Draco doesn’t think he can breathe. 

“He didn’t maim me, then,” Draco chokes out, when he can speak. Scorpius snorts a little laugh.

“I told you he was good at this,” Scorpius says, which is when a thought occurs to Draco. 

“And how exactly would you know?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Scorpius squirms under his gaze, and bites his lip. “I may have something to show you, but it would be pretty hypocritical of you to get mad, considering you just finished getting a tattoo.” 

He watches as Scorpius rolls up his sleeve, the opposite one to Draco’s, and all the breath leaves his body. 

A single wisteria petal paints the inside of his forearm in pretty shades of purple. Draco watches it float down the length of Scorpius’s arm, until it reaches his wrist, and little ripples appear in ink, as though the petal landed in water. And then the petal is at the top again, and the process continues. A permanent loop. 

“A petal from your wisteria vines,” Scorpius says. “Al used the same pot of ink to draw them.” 

Draco takes a deep breath, and pulls Scorpius into a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> Link on the way! Thank you! <3


End file.
